“Volunteers?” Berdon asked.
“Uhtred will explain,” Fletcher mumbled, unwilling to go further. No matter how he cut it, the people of Pelt would be unlikely to relish sharing their new home with strangers, especially ones who until recently had been reviled as anarchists and assassins. He would put off telling them as long as he could.
“All right,” Berdon said, his brows furrowed. “You’d better get on before Janet accosts you. She’s been doubting their decision since we left the damned mountains.”
Fletcher gave Berdon another quick hug and then hurried off, Sir Caulder in tow.
*
The barracks were a five-minute walk from the Anvil Tavern. On the way, Sir Caulder regaled Fletcher with tales from their journey down from Pelt; of hungry mountain wolves prowling in their wake and marauding brigands who had underestimated the preparedness of the intrepid band.
Their numbers had dwindled from roughly eighty to sixty, mostly families with young children peeling off to seek work in the towns they had passed by. But Berdon’s confidence in his son had kept most of their group together. On hearing each story, Fletcher’s heart sank deeper and deeper. He could only hope that their trust wasn’t misplaced.
The barracks was a compound that took up an entire street, with a palisade surrounding it. Blockhouses with firing slots could be seen above the wooden stakes, and sentries kept a lookout from towers on each corner. It was a fortress inside a city, and Fletcher felt out of place as they walked past marching squads of soldiers and through the open gates.
They found themselves at the edge of a courtyard, with more blockhouses hemming in on each side. There was a single occupant in the center—an aged man with a long, bent nose, upon which rested a pair of golden spectacles. He sat at a wide desk that was covered in ledgers, and he was busily scribbling away with a quill.
“Come!” he barked without looking up from his books.
Startled, Fletcher obeyed, standing before the man’s desk like a naughty schoolboy. Sir Caulder stomped in his wake, a bemused look upon his face.
“Lord Raleigh, I presume,” the man said in a reedy voice, his quill still scratching.
“Yes, that’s right,” Fletcher answered. Was he expected? Perhaps Harold had sent word ahead.
The man sighed.
“Squeems!” he yelled, making Fletcher jump.
A door opened in the building behind them, and a young lad wearing a red uniform and a peaked cap hurried out.
“Get the volunteers for our young lord here, sharpish now,” the bespectacled man ordered.
“Right away, Staff Clerk Murray,” Squeems said, doffing his cap to Fletcher before scurrying back the way he had come.
“Clerks,” Sir Caulder muttered derisively.
Murray paused and looked up from his writing.
“The administration of the military is often disdained by the feeble-minded,” he snapped at Sir Caulder. “Any fool can load and fire a musket.”
“And any coward can hide behind the walls with his books, while the real soldiers do the fighting,” Sir Caulder replied.
Murray did not respond, only smiled as Squeems emerged from the door behind him. A troop of boys no older than Fletcher followed in a ragged line. No sooner had the boys entered the courtyard, Squeems disappeared back into the blockhouse.
“One of the best parts of being a clerk is deciding which volunteers to send off for training and which to keep back for skivvy work and outside hires,” Murray said, his smile widening. “I’ve saved you some of the best. Fresh delinquents from jail these ones, volunteering to escape a trip up to Pelt prison.”
Fletcher tried not to let his disappointment show as he took a closer look at his new soldiers. There were fifteen in all, wearing homespun canvas shirts and trousers—most likely the clothing they were given in jail. They were a rough-looking bunch, with greasy, unkempt hair and unshaved faces. Those who weren’t staring at their feet gave him surly glances, resentful of their predicament.
“You’ll want to watch them,” Murray said in a loud, exaggerated whisper. “There’s already been a few escape attempts.”
“Is this all?” Sir Caulder asked, his tone apparently unconcerned at the pedigree of their new recruits. “Fifteen lads to defend an entire county?”
“These are just the jailbirds,” Murray said nastily. “There’s a few freemen mad enough to volunteer for you. They say they know our young lord here.”
“Know me?” Fletcher asked aloud. Who could they possibly be?
Already Squeems was leading out some more young men, all of them strangers in Fletcher’s eyes. They were on the skinny side, and there were only six of them, fewer than Fletcher had hoped for, but otherwise they looked perfectly normal.
“Still not nearly enough,” Sir Caulder said.
“Squeems, get the guests who arrived last week,” Murray ordered. “I think I’ve found the ideal place for them.”
“You mean…,” Squeems began.
“Now, boy,” Murray ordered.
Squeems shot off, a look of apprehension on his face.
“Lord Raleigh.” A dark-skinned boy from the new arrivals stepped forward. “We came as soon as we heard you were hiring.”
“I’m sorry, I…,” Fletcher began. Then he knew. It seemed so long ago, but he had seen this young lad only two weeks before, chained to a wall and surrounded by a horde of sleeping goblins. These boys were some of the slaves he had freed.
“… almost didn’t recognize you,” Fletcher said, shaking the young man’s hand. “What’s your name?”
“Kobe, my lord,” the boy replied.
“I’d think after your ordeal you’d want to get as far from the orcs as possible,” Fletcher said to the escaped slaves.
Kobe smiled, his teeth shining bright against his dark skin.
“We’ve a few scores to settle first.”
But Fletcher barely heard the young man’s response, because Squeems had appeared with the next group of arrivals.
Elves.
CHAPTER
35
WOOD ELVES, TO BE EXACT. There were ten of them, both males and females, all dressed in the traditional robes of their people. Fletcher could tell their caste by the amber of their eyes and the coloring of their hair—a mix of russets, brunets and auburns rather than the pale gold of their high elf brethren.
“You look surprised,” Murray said, his reedy voice filled with amusement. “The elves sent a few volunteers down to learn the way of the musket. Arrived last week. We’ve been keeping them busy with sweeping the grounds. A bit of discipline, you know how it is. Lucky for us, you’ve arrived to take them off our hands.”